


In Rising

by WithTheKeyIsKing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, BAMF Jim Moriarty, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock, Blackmail, Cruciatus, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, No Boy-Who-Lived, Possessive Moriarty, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-10 11:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5583751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithTheKeyIsKing/pseuds/WithTheKeyIsKing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock Holmes was twenty years old, he was responsible for the capture and imprisonment of infamous Dark Lord James Moriarty. Now, ten years later, Moriarty has broken out of prison along with a group of his strongest followers.<br/>~<br/>Previously titled "And We All Fall Down"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall."  
> -Confucius

The first thing Sherlock saw when he entered his kitchen was the light-colored owl perched in his over-the-sink window.

The genius sleepily walked over to it, glaring at it as it hooted happily and leaned into him when he removed the newspaper from it's ankle. He tried to shoo it off when it continued to just stare at him, but eventually caved and fed it a piece of bread. It hooted happily once more and then flew off.

He heard his floo ringing, someone trying to contact him, but he ignored it; it was far too early in the morning to talk to anyone. Besides, it was probably just Molly Hooper or Lily Evans Potter, once again trying to get him to come to one party or another; frankly the two of them could be so friendly it was just plain exhausting. It only helped a little that he knew they were both incredibly fierce under their polite smiles.

Sherlock flicked open a few of his kitchen cabinets, hunting for food, and made a sound of annoyance when he found absolutely nothing. With a shrug he decided to forget the food, going about making coffee instead.

A pang of irritation hit him as he heard the floo start ringing again. It went on like that for a while, starting up and then finally stopping, until it started up again. Sherlock didn't get it; it was six in the bloody morningwhy was someone trying so hard to get in contact with him? Surely Molly or Lily or whoever it was could wait until a more reasonable hour to _chat._

When the coffee was ready, Sherlock took a large gulp of it, ignoring the burn to his tongue and the gross, sludge-like quality. He shuffled into his living room and then left when the shrill ring of the floo was too much for so early in the morning. Instead, he sat at his kitchen table and unrolled the newspaper the owl had brought, shaking it out to get the cylinder-shape to go away. He took another sip of coffee and looked down at the front page-

_Bloody hell._

Sherlock froze, every nerve in his body going completely still, his brain short-circuiting for a brief moment. When it finally started back up again, his thoughts began to race.

James Moriarty had escaped from prison.

How was that even possible? Azkaban was the most secure prison in the world, no one had _ever_ broken out before. So how had he done it? Sherlock's mind began to turn. Well, he'd probably need an outside man, maybe even someone working at the prison. From the look at the photos there had been an explosion, so someone had to have set the bombsthe outside man. Alright, now to find the man. It was obviously one of Moriarty's followers, one of the ones who had managed to avoid capture-

"SHERLOCK!" someone yelled, snapping the curly-haired man from his thoughts. Instantly, Sherlock was on his feet, wand in hand and pointed firmly at the door. His heart was thudding in his chest, his mind still going a mile a minute, and waited as the door flew in and men began storming his apartment.

It was just like that night, all those years ago-

"Sherlock, thank god you're alright!" Someone said as they pulled the man into a tight hug. Sherlock tensed at the contact, trying to figure out what the bloody hell was going on. It was then that he recognized the faces in his apartment, not as the Death Eaters Moriarty so fondly surrounded himself with, but as the people that liked to call him their friend. Instantly, he was confused.

"Evans, get your bloody hands off of me; this is not one of your parties where you can go around giving drunken hugs to everyone you see," he said, but there was no real heat behind his words.

Lily removed herself from him, but she was grinning in amusement and clear relief, knowing his words to be harmless after years of getting to know him. Sherlock could be quite rude when he wanted to be, but to the people who considered him a friend (and that he considered tolerable) his words were never meant to truly hurt, only to try and get them to stop being so near him, since he didn't think it was a good idea for anyone to be near him.

"Holmes, I'm glad to see you're alright," Auror James Potter said with a small smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Is there a reason that you're breaking into my apartment? Or are you really all the pompous ass Severus always said you were, that you feel it well within your right to just bust in people's doors?" A muscle in Potter's jaw twitched in annoyance at the sound of his childhood rival's name, but just smiled anyway, just like almost everyone else in the room was. Happy idiots.

"Well, you were pointing your wand at the door when we entered, so you heard the news," Auror Greg Lestrade said with a sigh, sheathing his own wand. "Dumbledore wants us to bring you in, put you into protection."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and then sat back down at his kitchen table, drinking from his coffee cup. "I'm not going into the Ministry's form of Witness Protection; I refuse to just uproot my life because some _man_ who happens to have a reason to hate me managed to escape from prison. I absolutely won't do it, and you cannot make me."

"Oh, you bloody child," Lestrade snapped. "This is the _Dark Lord_ we're talking about here! Not to mention he broke out with twenty of his followers, which just adds to the ranks of those already out and about. Will you just come with us? John is already with Dumbledore, and you know he'll kill you if you don't show up."

At the sound of John's name, Sherlock perked up a bit. John had become his friend when Sherlock was still suffering from serious PTSD about what Moriarty and his followers had done to him. John had been struggling with his own issues, and they had become fast friends. Sherlock was steadily ignoring the fact that he really wanted to be more than friends, because John was incredibly straight.

With a deliberate and put-upon sigh, Sherlock stood up, putting down his coffee cup and moving towards his bedroom. "Fine, fine, I'll come, but I'm negotiating this whole thing with Dumbledore," when they moved to follow him into his room, he glared at them. "Don'twait out here, I'm just gathering a few things."

Sherlock shut the door behind him, taking a moment to just lean against it and catch his breath. In the beginning, he'd been so sure that Moriarty would escape from his trial unharmed. That somehow he'd find a way to be cleared, and then he'd go right back to terrorizing Sherlock and the world. So when Moriarty was convicted, and was sent to Azkaban, Sherlock had felt, for the first time in years, a small amount of hope. It had been ten whole years since then, he'd gotten used to the idea that he'd never have to see James Moriarty ever again...

Sherlock shook his head to try and clear it, stepping further into his room. He changed into his favorite black robes and went about gathering whatever he felt he couldn't live without into a bag; his Stradivarius, a few pairs of robes, his pet skull, and the photo album that John had given to him for Christmas, just a few days ago. It was bound in beautiful brown leather, and was filled with photos of Sherlock and various people, going back as far as his first years at Hogwarts. Most of the photos had John in them, which always made Sherlock fill with warmth; he could count on John.

"Done," Sherlock said as he opened his bedroom door with a flourish. He walked quickly towards the font door, the small crowd of people parting for him as he moved. "Well? I have wards up, you know, you can't apparate in or out of my apartment; you'll have to go out into the hall." The group nodded their understanding and followed him out of his apartment; he locked it behind them. "Hogwarts, I assume? Or are we actually going to the Ministry?"

Practically everyone present winced, and Sherlock had his answer. He sighed. "Ministry, then." Then he turned, quick and efficient, aparating with a _pop_ and appearing in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. A bunch of _pops_ around him alerted him to the fact that the group from his apartment had arrived as well.

"Come on," Sirius Black said with a grin, pushing past Sherlock and weaving his way through the crowd, "Dumbledore and John are in Minister Shacklebolt's office."

When they reached the end of the Atrium they passed by the guard's station, and they handed over their wands for inspection before being able to pass to the elevator bank. Lestrade pushed a button and they lurched upwards, and then sideways, and then upwards again. When they finally reached where they were supposed to be, the lift door _clanged_ open, and the group of wizards stepped out. There was a large, ornate door in front of them, which Lily knocked on. A voice Sherlock recognized as the Minister's called for them to enter.

Immediately after entering, Sherlock's arms were full of a slightly shorter body, strong arms wrapping around his shoulders. After a few hesitant seconds, Sherlock hugged John Watson back, relaxing into the familiar warmth of his best friend. What could've been seconds or hours later, John pulled away, smiling in a way that was clearly masking anger and fear.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, why didn't you answer my calls earlier? I must've flooed a thousand times! I thought that they'd gotten you!" John said with a small laugh and a light punch to Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock fought against a smile. "It was six in the morning!" he said indignantly, "I thought it was Evans or Molly calling to _chat._ I wasn't in the mood for useless yammering." Lily made an affronted sound behind him, but said nothing.

"Sherlock, my boy," Dumbledore said warmly after everyone was done saying their hellos. "How are you on this terrible day?"

The curly-haired wizard shrugged. "I'm _fine,_ I always knew that he would escape, so this isn't any big shock; the letters he sent me over the years made it very clear that he would escape. You all knew this, why are you all surprised?"

John sighed, "because it's _Azkaban,_ Sherlock. No one has ever broken out of thereit was considered unescapable until this morning! Now, don't say that you're bloody fine and just tell me how you are doing." John's tone held no room for argument.

Sherlock had never understood this part, the part where everyoneespecially John, always especially Johnactually seemed to care about what was going on in his head, about what he was feeling. It just didn’t make any sense to him, the fact that people seemed to actually care about him _him!_ Why anyone would was absolutely ridiculous to Sherlock. He was rude and made other people look like idiots and was practically uncaring; how was that a person that a whole group of people cared about? How was that a person that someone as wonderful as _John_ found worth caring about?

“I’m a little shaken up,” Sherlock admitted slowly, quietly so that no one but Johnand Dumbledore; the old man was most definitely using magic to listen incould hear him. John’s expression softened a little, and he nodded.

One thing that Sherlock had instantly liked about John Watson when they had met was that, even though John had known who Sherlock was and what he had gone through, there was no pity in his eyes when he had looked at Sherlock. No pity, no disgust for what he'd done, only a deep understanding. It was what had made Sherlock seek out the companionship between them originally, wanting to spend time with someone who not only didn’t judge him for having PTSD or still having nightmares from his time with Jim Moriarty, but also _understood_ the fact that he had something in his past to freak out over.

It was this understanding that Sherlock saw now in John’s expression; no pity, no disgust, just pure, unhidden understanding. It was something that, even after Sherlock was a prisoner of Moriarty againbecause he surely would be sometime soonhe’d never forget. He loved John Watson, and he couldn’t say that about many people.

"Right, well then, what's the plan?" John said, addressing the room at large. This began the long conversation as to what would happen next; where would Sherlock go, what would they do to fight back against Moriarty and his Death Eaters. The Order of the Phoenix was called into action, Dumbledore sending out a few letters to people and Kingsley flooing others to spread the word.

The first ideaand the one everyone liked mostabout what to do with Sherlock was to place him in a random house out in the countryside and put it under the Fidelius Charm so that he couldn't be found. Sherlock, of course, immediately rallied against this idea, not wanting to run and hide like some silly little scared muggle. After a long, _long_ discussion, it was finally decided that Sherlock would go and stay with John, and the Fidelius Charm would be placed on John's apartment so that they'd both be protected.

When everything was settled, Sherlock and John were escorted back down to the Atrium by a team of Aurors; the team would be accompanying them out of the ministry and to John's apartment to make sure that no one harmed them on the way there, and they would preform the Fidelius Charm. Dumbledore would act as Secret Keeper, so he would be following along shortly after.

In the elevator on the way down to the Atrium, Sherlock felt John’s hand wrap around his own. He looked down in surprise and saw John’s fingers intertwining with his own. John was staring resolutely ahead, and Sherlock thought he saw a pink tint to his friend’s cheeks, but he was holding his hand nonetheless and Sherlock was happy about it.

The elevator _dinged_ and then the door opened. Sherlock moved forward and then paused. Something was wrong; everything was so _quiet._ It was close to eight in the morning and twenty-one dark wizards had just escaped from prison; the Atrium should be full of the sound of the swish of robes and the patter of feet and the murmur of voices, but there was... _nothing._

“Be cautious,” Sherlock said to the group of Aurors, “wands out; there is something wrong here.” Sherlock reluctantly let go of John’s hand with a small squeeze so that he could draw his own wand, and walked forward.

When they went around the corner of the elevator bank, they all stopped short. The Atrium was still full, the crowds of Ministry workers still filling the large space. But none of them were moving, all of them standing perfectly still. There was an opening, sort of like a walkway free of people, and standing at the end of the open pathway was a group of maybe forty people, all decked out in black robes and white masks that hid their faces.

Standing in front of them was James Moriarty, grinning like a madman.

“Sherlock!” Moriarty said in a sing-song voice and began striding quickly forward. All of the people parted like the red sea for him, and a group of five of the masked peopleDeath Eaters, Sherlock knew they werefollowed after him, the rest staying where they were. “Sherlock, it is _so_ good to see you again! How have you been? Honestly, I’m hurt that you never replied to any of my letters!”

The Auror team finally jumped into action, moving to surround Sherlock and began firing off curses and other spells, engaging the Death Eaters in battle. Sherlock recognized Sebastian Moran’s fighting style amongst them, along with Irene Adler’s, and tried his hardest to fight along with the Aurorshe was pretty skilled himselfbut the red-covered wizards kept trying to push Sherlock back, and they were so outnumbered and they were _losing,_ so Sherlock wanted to fight as well. And then, before he knew it, the Aurors were all down, either dead or unconscious or subdued, and John was pulling on his hand for them to run, begging him to run, but Sherlock couldn’t move because Moriarty’s eyes were on him with familiar intensity, was getting closer and closer and he couldn’t _think-_

“Sherly,” Moriarty cooed when he was less than ten feet away, Moran and Adler and three others right behind him. “Oh, _Sherly,_ I missed you! Did you miss me?” He grinned, a mad little thing, and Sherlock, for the first time in a _very_ long time, didn’t know what to do. In his hesitation, Moriarty’s eyes drifted to John, who was still holding Sherlock’s hand and standing a bit in front of him. His grin turned harsher, little more than a baring of teeth. “And you must be John Hamish WatsonI’ve heard far too much about you. You seem to be in my way, quite literally,” his eyes flicked down to their intertwined hands again, and Sherlock heard John gulp, but the shorter man lifted his chin and looked Moriarty dead in the eyes.

Moriarty’s attention turned back to Sherlock, and the criminal mastermind licked his lips. “This doesn’t involve your _pet,_ Sherlock, so how about we remove him, hmm?” Suddenly a bolt of red shot out from behind Moriarty and hit John square in the chest. John crumpled to the ground and Sherlock dropped down to his knees with him, to make sure that he was alright. Finding a pulse, Sherlock felt relieved that he was just unconscious, and stood back up to face Moriarty.

"Aren't ordinary people adorable?” Moriarty said with a smile, attention fully on Sherlock, just like always.

“Are you going to kill me?” Sherlock asked, no fear in his voice.

Moriarty rolled his eyes, scoffing, and took another few steps forward. He watched Sherlock the way a predator watched its prey, and Sherlock couldn’t help but be reminded of how that look used to thrill him, used to make him feel wanted-

“Kill you? Eh, no. Don’t be obvious, Sherlock, that's what the regular people would think; I’d never kill _you_ ,” the madman's grin widened, and he took another couple steps towards Sherlock, so that he was only a foot away from the curly-haired man. He rose his hand and placed it to the side of Sherlock’s face, cupping the taller man’s cheek. Sherlock fought against the two instincts in him; one telling him to flinch away, the other saying to lean towards the contact. Towards Jim.

“What, exactly, is the plan, Moriarty?” Sherlock asked in the most unaffected voice he could manage at the moment.

Moriarty sighed, stroking his thumb over Sherlock’s cheek and making the taller man shiver. “I miss the time when you called me Jim, Sherlock. Remember how we used to be? Partners in crime, the two of us against the rest of the world?”

Sherlock shook his head sadly. “That was before you went insane.”

Moriarty laughed. “I was always insane.”

Sherlock nodded, conceding that point. “True,” he said. “Then it was before you declared war in the Wizarding World and started letting your men torture me and innocent people. Before you stopped caring about what was right in front of you and just focused on the bigger picture. It was before you _became_ Moriarty, and stopped being James.”

Moriarty sighed once more, and removed his hand from Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock felt the loss. “Alright, I guess I knew that you’d say that. Onto plan B,” he paused for a moment, just looking at Sherlock, and then gestured at all of the people around them. “All of these people are currently under the control of me and my followers. You will come with me, of your own volition, and do everything I ask of you. In return, I won’t kill your friends. We’ll be taking a few peopleincluding your _John_ with us, of course, as insurance. Do we have a deal?”

“No! Sherlock, don’t!” Lily called out from where she was being held captive. “Run, Sherlock! He’ll just use you and your powers again!”

Sherlock’s head snapped towards her, one of the only people he considered a friend, and snarled when the man holding her slapped her. James Potter yelled insults and death threats to the man, and Lily made assurances to him that she was fine, and then cursed the man out herself.

“If I go with you and do everything you ask,” Sherlock said slowly, wanting to make sure he had all of the terms straight, “then you won’t hurt anyone here. What will happen to the people you take with you?”

Moriarty shrugged. “They’ll be fine, as long as you behave. Properly fed and watered, like the good little pets that they are. I’ll only hurt them if you refuse to do as I say. Are we understood? Do we have a deal?”

Sherlock hesitated, ignoring Lily’s and Lestrade’s yelling for him to not do it. They knew how powerful he was; they knew that if he worked under Jim Moriarty again then the Ministry was practically doomed. The combined brain and magical power of James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes was be an unstoppable force. But Sherlock had to do it; some of the only people he cared about were in this room, being threatened. _John_ was being threatened. How could he say no?

“We have a deal.”


	2. Chapter 2

Moriarty's eyes lit up and his grin widened. _"Excellent,_ Sherlock, absolutely excellent." Then he turned away, striding back towards where the rest of his followers were waiting. "Bring the redhead and Watson, if you don't mind, Moran," Moriarty ordered in an excited drawl. James Potter immediately started yelling, knowing they meant Lily and refusing to let his wife go without a fight.

With one last look at Johnwho was currently being lifted with a levitation charm by one of the Death EatersSherlock followed after Moriarty, grip tight on his wand. Sherlock knew that he was doing the right thing by sacrificing himself for his friends, but it didn't stop the anxiety running through him or the rapidness of his heartbeat or the fearful butterflies in his stomach.

Moriarty's smiled widened even further when Sherlock reached him, and then extended a hand towards the curly-haired wizard. Sherlock took it, seeing it for the demand it was, not the request it pretended to be.

"We're going to apparate now, darling," Moriarty said, voice a low purr. "I would tell you where we were goingI do know how much you hate side-along apparitionbut that would kind of be counterproductive with all of these witnesses, don't you think?" Sherlock nodded his understanding, even though he hated not knowing, and prepared himself for the familiar feeling of being sucked through a straw that was normal when apparating.

"Move out!" Moriarty yelled, and then turned quickly on the spot, pulling Sherlock with him. When they 'landed', Sherlock took a moment to settle himself, trying to keep himself from throwing up from the nausea that always accompanied apparition. "Welcome to my humble abode," Moriarty said with an exaggerated bow and a raising of his eyebrow. "What do you think, Sherl?"

They were standing in front of a large, ornate golden gate, which one of the Death Eaters opened with a flick of his wand. In front of them was a large amount of landprobably a few acresand it was beautiful. The grass was perfectly green, the groups of small flowers all vibrant and bright. The trees, even though it was only a few days after Christmas, were filled with green leaves that were swaying in a light breeze. A long pathway was lain before the group of people, and it led to a huge mansion. The mansion was beautiful in and of itself, and it reminded Sherlock of Hogwarts, in that sense.

As they walked up the pathway towards the house, Sherlock realized that Moriarty was still waiting for a response to his question. "It's quite nice," Sherlock said neutrally, not wanting to let on how gorgeous he found the old, stone castle. Moriarty grinned anyway, seeing right through him.

When they reached the door, Moriarty flicked his wand and the door swung open, and they all walked inside. The room they entered was beautiful, just like the outside of the castle. It was a grand hall, a large, open space that was lined with many doors. You could see the large staircase, spiraling up and up, only stopping at each floor and then finally when it reached the roof, far above them and out of sight. The ceiling held a few glass chandeliers, and all of the doors were lined with gold.

"Welcome, Sherlock, to New Moriarty Manner," Moriarty said, walking forward with pride and like he owned the place (well, he kind of did). "I don't love it as much as the original, but it's still pretty fantastic. Come on, I'll get you set up in your room and you can have a few hours to yourself, but then you have to be ready; we're going to have a party!" Moriarty glanced at the two prisoners that he had taken with disdain. "Put them in the rooms downstairs, Seb, and make sure they won't be escaping any time soon."

One of the Death EatersSebastian Moran, going by his shape and the way he responded to the nicknamenodded and stepped forward, levitating John's unconscious form after him and pulling the shouting Lily along with him. Sherlock watched them go with sadness, knowing that the only reason they were in this situation at all was because a deranged madman was obsessed with him.

"Come along, Sherl!" Moriarty called out as he walked away.

Sherlock spared one last glance to the disappearing figures of his friends, and then followed after Moriarty.

* * *

_Sherlock was fourteen years old when he met James Moriarty._

_He'd just started his fourth year at Hogwarts. He was the top student in his year, for obvious reasonshad been ever since first year, of course. Not many people liked him but that didn't really matter; he had his books and his strong magic and his_ mind, _which was all he needed. Besides, he was a Holmes. People were just chess pieces, not needed for actual friendship. At least, that's what Mycroft always said._

_He'd heard of James Moriarty before, of course; his teachers had made the comparison once or twice, saying that they shared the same genius. But Moriarty was three years older than Sherlock so they never really had any interaction._

_That changed the first Hogsmede weekend in his fourth year. Sherlock never went on those trips even though he was allowed; he enjoyed the silence of the castle when the majority of the students were gone, enjoyed the ability to roam and explore without bumping into one idiot or another. He was currently in a hidden passage way off to the side of the astronomy tower when he heard the sound of a quiet argument._

_Being the curious person that he was, Sherlock went to investigate. Standing in the open area of the tower were two men. One was blonde and stocky, yet tall. The sharp set to his jaw conveyed anger but the look in his eyes was slight fear._

_The other man was shorter, but he radiated power. His black hair was artfully slicked back, his dark eyes gleaming with fury yet his expression was perfectly calm. The dark-haired man held his wand in his hand but he was simply twirling it benignly, yet he somehow managed to make that action look threatening. It was clear that no spells had been cast yet, but Sherlock could feel the pure magic in the air like a heavy weight and he knew it was coming from the shorter man._

_"I'm going to tell you one last time, Sebby," the dark-haired man's voice held a cheerful tone to it but the threat was clear. "If you don't close this deal in the next forty-eight hours I will be forced to intercede, and you know that won't end well for any of the parties involved."_

_The blonde manSebby, short for Sebastian? Most likely Sebastian Moran, one of Slytherin's beatersnodded sharply. This whole time he had never met the other man's eyes. "Of course, Boss. I'll get it done."_

_Suddenly the dark-haired man grinned and the magic in the air dissipated all at once, the weight leaving. "Perfect! I'm glad we understand each other. Now, off you pop! I'm sure that pretty little thing you've been fucking is waiting for you somewhere." Moran once again nodded and then turned, leaving quickly._

_Sherlock was fascinated. The magic that had been in the air, the pure_ power _behind it...it had been intoxicating. Everyone at this droll school could barely_ access _their magic, let alone manifest it physically, and this dark-haired man had done both looking like it hadn't taken a single thing out of him. Sherlock wanted to find out how much this man could do; could he do as much as Sherlock could? More? What could he teach Sherlock?_

_In a flash, the man's eyes snapped towards Sherlock, locking his sharp gaze to the other's pale blue eyes. The darkness of the man's eyes was strange; at first glance they appeared purely black but Sherlock could see hints of different shades swirling through the darkness. There was a deep intelligence in the man's eyes, a hunger in them for something Sherlock didn't know. He was examining Sherlock like he was the only thing in the world that mattered right then and it sent a shiver up Sherlock's spine._

_"Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?" The man asked with a tilt of his head._

_Sherlock nodded, raising his chin slightly under the thorough scrutinization._

_The man grinned and began strolling forward, towards the younger boy. Sherlock held his position. "Well, it's nice to finally make your acquaintance, my dear. All of the professors seem to think that you're as powerful and as smart as me. And your brother..." the man chuckled. "Well, the Ice Man sure has a lot to say when you get him talking."_

_Everything clicked then, who this man was. James Moriarty. Seventh year, Slytherin. Perfect grades, perfect scores on all tests; could do whatever he wanted in the world. Lost the title of Head Boy to Mycroft but was nicknamed the King of Slytherin. Widely respected and feared in equal measure. Rumors of dark dealings but no actual proof. All around a truly brilliant man._

_"Mycroft likes the sound of his own voice," Sherlock replied. "I never put much stock into what he says."_

_Moriarty chuckled. "Well, you're not wrong, Sherl."_

_The two of them fell into silence. Moriarty was still staring at him, his eyes flicking all over Sherlock's body; not in a sexual waythough Sherlock did notice a hint of_ that _but simply cataloguing every part of Sherlock that he could see, just like Sherlock did to everyone else. It felt strange to be on the receiving end of a gaze like that; no one in this stupid world was smart enough to have a gaze like that, except for him and Mycroft...and, apparently, James Moriarty._

 _It was_ fascinating.

_"Would you like to come with me, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked calmly, raising an eyebrow._

_Sherlock frowned. "And go where?"_

_Moriarty shrugged languidly. "I don't know, doesn't really matter. I just want to pick your brain a bit. It's not every day you meet an equal."_

_A thrill ran through Sherlock. Sherlock had never viewed anyone as his equal. No one was as smart or as clever, no one as excited by crimes, no one as truly brilliant. Well, Mycroft was, but Sherlock would never admit that and Mycroft would never think it. But here James Moriarty was, readily declaring them as equals. And Sherlock...Sherlock believed it._

_"Alright, Moriarty," Sherlock said, his mind made up._

_"Please," Moriarty said with a wink. "Call me Jim."_

Sherlock snapped out of his mind palace, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it; going down memory lane voluntarily when JiMoriarty would try and force him down it anyway was not a smart plan. Frankly, Sherlock didn't know why he went looking in the first place; maybe to find some clue as to how to get out of the frying pan he'd been thrown into...but no; Sherlock knew it was pointless.

The door to "his bedroom" (which Moriarty had escorted him to immediately and left him in to settle down) was unlocked, the window too, but Sherlock knew it wasn't a means of freedom; if anything, it was a sign of Moriarty's total control. The madman knew Sherlock wouldn't do anything that would put Lily and John in danger.

As soon as Sherlock had been left alone, he'd taken a shower in the adjoining bathroom, read a book about rare potions (which he knew he had an exact copy of in his apartment) from the stocked bookshelf, and then stepped into his mind palace to try and calm himself.

It had been three hours since Moriarty had left him here, left him to "have a few hours to himself", and Sherlock knew the dark-haired man would be coming back soon, to escort him to a  _party._  Sherlock had had many experiences at a Moriarty party. In the beginning it had been exciting, an experiment. Now the thought of them just made him feel ill.

A knock on the door startled Sherlock, but he quickly gained his composure and called out for whoever it was to enter.

Sebastian Moran, still wearing his black fighting robes but lacking his mask, walked into the room. The blonde man glanced around the room in disinterest and then turned to face Sherlock. The two men stared at each other for a minute, then Moran gestured vaguely towards the wardrobe.

"It's time to get dressed; people are arriving, and Boss wants you downstairs with him." Sherlock simply continued to stare at the other man and Moran huffed in annoyance. "Look, just put on the damn clothes he's provided. You know him, Holmes, better than anyone; he won't hesitate to hurt your friends."

Sherlock scowled; he knew Moran was right. The curly-haired man got to his feet and strolled over to the wardrobe. Inside were at least fifteen pairs of robes, all of them made beautifully. Sherlock ran his fingers over one of them and sighed; even after ten years, Moriarty still knew Sherlock's tastes.

"Put on the-"

"Yes, the black one with gray-blue lining," Sherlock interrupted him. "I know his tastes just like he knows mine, Moran. Ten years hasn't seemed to've changed a bloody thing."

Sherlock didn't bother to tell Moran to turn away; the blond-haired man had spent six years around Sherlock and Moriartyhe knew to not let his gaze linger on any part of the younger man. _That was Moriarty's right alone,_ Sherlock thought bitterly.

The robes were comfortable and fit perfectly. Sherlock didn't let himself think about how Moriarty knew his exact size down to the smallest detail, enough so as to get him a wardrobe of clearly-bespoke robes. It didn't really matter, after all. The robes were there and Sherlock would wear them and that was that.

When he was done changing, Sherlock turned to face Moran and met the soldier's gaze, nodding to show his readiness, and then followed the other man out of the room and through the many hallways until they reached the doors to a small chamber outside the ballroom.

What was about to happen was very obvious to Sherlock. Inside the ballroom would be all of the free Death Eaters, along with all of those who had supported Moriarty's cause back when the man had been free. There would also be some people who had openly opposed Moriarty locked up, put on display for the guests to watch and torture as they pleased.

Sherlock would be shown off, Moriarty's trophy, Moriarty's partner returned, and then he'd be forced to use his powers against the captured wizards. Those people wouldn't be anyone Sherlock cared for; that would negate the whole purpose of having Lily and John as leverage, to keep Sherlock compliant lest his friends be hurt.

After that...well, in the old days after a party, Moriarty would want sex, but Sherlock wasn't sure if Moriarty would demand that now, knowing that Sherlock was there against his will. Sherlock didn't know if it would matter at all to the other man.

In the past, Sherlock would've said _absolutely not_ if someone asked him if Moriarty would force him into sex. Sherlock had loved Moriarty and had been positive that Moriarty loved him in return. But those last few months before Moriarty was captured...they weren't pleasant. He had thought he'd known the darkest parts of Moriarty's mind before that, had been _absolutely positive_. But then...

Sherlock took a deep breath and realized that he and Moran had simply been standing outside the chamber. Moran was very carefully _not_ -staring at him, allowing him a moment to collect himself. Sherlock didn't like Moran (he used to love the man's loyalty to Moriarty, now he hated it) but the man had always respected him, which would be helpful in this shitty situation.

After allowing himself one more second to separate himself from what was about to happen, Sherlock pushed open the chamber door and strode inside, his chin held high. Standing by the bookshelf next to the fireplace was Moriarty, wearing exquisite robes and running his fingers lightly over the spines of the books. When the door opened he turned and grinned at the sight of Sherlock.

"Sherly! You look marvelous. The blue-gray lining matches your eyes perfectly." Sherlock just stared and Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Moran, you can head out. We'll be there in just a mo'."

The Death Eater turned and left without a word. When the door shut behind him, Moriarty strode towards Sherlock. Sherlock didn't back away or flinch, though anxiety pooled in his gut, making his chest tight.

Just like he had in the Ministry atrium, Moriarty lifted a hand and placed it against Sherlock cheek. His thumb caressed his skin softly, running over his lips and then the bridge of his nose. Sherlock carefully did not move, never taking his eyes off of Moriarty. But the touch was so familiar, and so kind; he'd known this touch for six years, had come to love this touch, and it was very hard to turn off the instinct that wanted to move his body closer to Jim's.

 _No._ Not Jim. Moriarty.

"I missed you so much, Sherlock," Moriarty's voice was quiet and his thumb never ceased its soft movements. "For ten years I rotted away in hell with nothing but my mind to entertain myself. I thought up a million different ways to hurt you, to get back at you for letting them in, for helping them to capture me. I thought of every single way to break you down, tear you to shreds and leave you broken."

A shudder racked Sherlock's body and his eyes slid shut. Even _this_ was familiar. The calm threats of pain if he strayed, the promise of hardship if he broke his word...

"But then, my beautiful Holmes, a plan was forming to get me out and I knew instantly that I wanted you backI _needed_ you back. Back by my side, where you belong. Where you have always belonged."

Sherlock could feel Moriarty pressing up to him, pushing him backwards until his back was against the wall and Moriarty's breath was ghosting over his lips. Panic was exploding in Sherlock, a fight or flight instinct slamming into him, but Sherlock couldn't move. Not because Moriarty was trapping him against the wall, but because this was _so familiar._

This, right here; this, Jim pressed against him, talking about wanting him. No one had ever wanted Sherlock before Jim came along. And he knew that no one ever had after he left. This, right here; this was six years of his life. This was every day from fourteen to twenty. This was passion and understanding and _belonging._

Jim pressed his lips against Sherlock's, softly at first and then harder, demanding access. Sherlock allowed him in, whimpering slightly and melting into the contact that he had never admitted to missing. James' magic rushed over him and ten years had not taken away how purely amazing that felt.

And then his mental processes kicked in and he realized he was kissing the man who was responsible (either directly or indirectly) for so many of the scars that littered his body, for the countless Crutiatus Curses that had been cast on him, for the nightmares that still woke him up screaming from time to time.

Moriarty clearly felt the moment Sherlock withdrew mentally because he pulled his lips away and sighed, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's own. They were both breathing hard, both trying to regain control of themselves. Sherlock chided himself for being so stupid as to let himself get swept up in the past. It truly wasn't worth it.

Because _that?_ That might've been  _passion_ and _understanding_ and _belonging,_ but that was also pain and fear. That was also hoping to please a madman and feeling his heart break every time he didn't. That was also losing himself to another person and not recognizing himself in the mirror. That was also turning into a monster for the sake of curiosity and _love._

How had Sherlock ever been so goddamn stupid?

"Well," Moriarty said, his composure firmly back in place. He stepped back, straightening his robes and reaching out to straighten Sherlock's. "Time to get to our guests, don't you think?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwahahaha new chapter yay!!

_Something Sherlock quickly discovered was that James' brilliance had not been exaggerated._

_No matter what tangent Sherlock went off on, no matter how convoluted the topic or random the idea, James kept up. No, James didn't just keep uphe kept Sherlock's thoughts moving. James pushed the boundaries of his mind, made him consider things that he'd never even thought to think of (and that was something no one had ever managed to do before, something Sherlock hadn't even thought possible)._

_It was very strange at first, having someone on his level to converse with. At times James could be kind of dark, but Sherlock had never shied away from darkness (he had always considered his mind and magic firmly in the "gray" area) and everything they discussed on_ that _type of thing was purely hypothetical anyway, so no harm done. Simply an intellectual curiosity. Nothing for anyone to worry about. Perfectly fine._

 _For the first few months of their...(well, Sherlock wasn't really sure what to call the relationship between James and himself; it wasn't as simple as a friendship, but it most definitely was not anything intimate)...their_ "thing", _James' people (not friends, no, Jameslike Sherlockdidn't actually have real friends) were wary of him. They didn't like the fact that he was James' new favorite thing._

 _The only person who never really seemed to mind a forth year hanging around so much and taking up James' attention was Sebastian Moran. The Slytherin beater wasn't the smartest man when compared to Sherlock and James, but he was observant and strong and_ _stayed_ _with James_ _because of pure loyalty, not fear._

_Sherlock was far from stupid; he knew that James had something not quite right going on, something that made his people stick close because they were afraid of doing anything else. There were rumors out in the world of a group of wizards doing bad things, causing mayhem...Sherlock of course had no proof that James was involved in this, but he had come to know the way James' mind worked, and it seemed like just his thing._

_But the thing was, it didn't really matter to Sherlock if James was responsible for those things. There had been no permanent damage,_ _and even if there had been, well...Sherlock couldn't spend his life crying over every injury people received. He wasn't a Healer, and wasn't going to ever be one; it wasn't his job to care about what happened to people. Caring wouldn't help them, anyway._

 _Now, that wasn't to say that Sherlock_ didn't _care about anything, of course. He cared about spells; how they worked, the science behind them. He cared about potions; the way the smallest of small changes could turn them into completely different potions or make them blow up right in your face. He cared about the interchangeability of muggle and wizarding topics; how one's history affected the other._ _He even cared about Mycroft (though he'd never_ ever _say that out loud and would deny it until the day he died)._

_And somehow, after only three short months, Sherlock realized that he cared about James Moriarty as well._

_He'd never had a...("friend" still didn't fit)...chosen relationship of any kind before. He and Mycroft were stuck with each other out of blood but there had never been anyone that looked at Sherlock like he was worth having around. They all called him names; 'freak', 'monster',_ _and 'psychopath' being among their favorites. And, in kind, Sherlock had never found any of them interesting enough to waste his time on._

 _But James...James was simply_ different. _James was interesting and exciting and fascinating and thought_ Sherlock _was interesting and exciting and fascinating. James had once sat with Sherlock for three hours while the younger boy picked apart the lives of everyone who walked passed them. He'd once sat and listened to Sherlock rant for an hour about the stupidity of whoever had invented the 'expulso' spell ("the powerlessness of it is impractical!") and then helped him test out the new version of that spell that he'd created himself. (And yes, it was at least ten times more powerful.)_

_And if they tested his new version on small animals like rats and gerbils, well, it wasn't like they were actually hurting anybody._

_Sherlock usually spent Christmas break at the school, and this one was no exception; he felt no need to go home and pretend to enjoy a pointless holiday when his parents could just send him any gifts they thought necessary. Mycroft always stayed as well, choosing to spend the peace of the castle to work on whatever it was he liked to work on (Sherlock didn't care enough to ask)._

_Now, Sherlock usually spent the break alone (1: barely anyone was there and 2: why on earth would he want to spend it with someone?) but this time,_ James _whose presence during the holidays apparently depended on how he was feeling the day before break each year_ _was there._

_Right after the carriages disappeared, James took Sherlock to the Room of Requirement (which Sherlock had shown him a month ago; and hadn't the look of pride and excitement on James' face just made his day?) and they spent the next five days in there without coming out. They worked on perfecting new spells, finishing potions they were concocting, and discussing every fleeting thought in their minds._

_And at the end, when James pointed out that it was Christmas and they probably should show their faces in case the teachers decided to amount a search party, James kissed him._

_Sherlock had always hated the romantic clichés the silly girls around Hogwarts spouted about their first kisses. He'd always turned his nose up at the muggle movies where a boy and a girl finally came together against the horrible (cliché) circumstances they were in and shared a passionate kiss._

_But when James laughed good-naturedly at Sherlock's pout (he didn't want to leave their work!) and grabbed his hand gently and pulled him away from the potions' table, and when Sherlock went to make one final protest against leaving, James was right there, very close, and the older boy pressed their lips together and it felt like_ home.

 _Because he could feel itJames' magic. Now, when you spent a lot of time around James, you got used to the feeling of his magic in the air. Whenever the dark-eyed man was upset or frustrated the air always crackled with his magic, an easy sight into the mood of their powerful leader. But this was_ different. _Feeling James' magic in the air all around him was so very different from feeling it rush over his skin, caress his lips, explode in his mind as James pulled him tightly against him._

 _In all his life, Sherlock had never been interested in kissing anyone or doing anything more than that; his body was just transport, after all. But now, after kissing James, after feeling the pure_ rush _of someone else's magic against his own, Sherlock never wanted to stop. But he was sure that it would never be like it was with James; no one had the same strength of magic that he did, no one knew Sherlock so thoroughly. James might as well have ruined him for anyone else right there._

_Sherlock found that he didn't really mind._

* * *

The ballroom was just as grand and stately as Sherlock expected it to be. It looked very similar to what he remembered of the _original_ Moriarty Manner, though that had been a bit smaller.

Even if he didn't want to, Sherlock could admit that the room was beautiful. Floating glass chandeliers were high in the air and there was a full band on a stage placed in front of a lovely dance floor.

What separated this from a regular party, however, were the ornate cages with golden bars spaced throughout the room; all large, big enough to hold ten people standing, but cages nonetheless. In each of them was a person. Sherlock recognized most of them; some were Aurors, both past and present, that had worked to hunt down Moriarty and his Death Eaters. Some were people who had spoken out against Moriarty's cause. Some were just regular people Moriarty didn't like. Sherlock counted twenty in total.

Around each cage were small groups of people; Death Eaters and Moriarty supporters. They would cast spells at the caged people; some as benign as mild cutting curses, other as horrid as the Crutiatus Curse. The sounds of their screams mixed in with the music from the band, creating a very strange tone in the room. At first glance it would seem like a normal partygood band, happy guests, couples dancingbut then you saw the prisoners being tortured.

Sherlock was just glad that his deduction had been correct and there were no people he cared for in the cages.

"Isn't it exciting?" Moriarty whispered, his breath hot against the shell of Sherlock's ear. "Everyone's just so excited that we're back in action! No one's been to a Moriarty party in, well, _ten years!"_

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock forced himself to remain calm. Now was the time to be in perfect control of himself. He already knew what was going to happen, and the consequences of he didn't do as he was told; it wouldn't do him any good to get emotional about it. Besides, emotional had never been his strong suit.

"Hello everyone!" Moriarty called out as they strode towards the center of the room. The people all turned their attention to the Dark Lord and the taller man by his side. Moriarty had his arm looped through Sherlock's, which drew even _more_ attention to them, if that were possible. "So _lovely_ to see you all again! Did you miss me?"

Moriarty's grin was sharp and his Death Eaters went to their knees, kneeling for their Lord, while all of the supporters bowed respectfully. Sherlock's stomach turned and he felt Moriarty's magic simmer quietly in the air, pleased at the submission in his people. "No need to stop on my account," the man chuckled, waving his hand dismissively through the air. "Keep having fun!"

The Death Eaters got back to their feet and the party started up again, the screams once again joining the music in the air.

Sherlock was led through the room by Moriarty. Occasionally the shorter man would stop them to start a conversation up with some of his followers or supporters. Sherlock, thankfully, was not required to say much, but he was forced to accept their congratulations and happiness that they expressed at his return to Moriarty's side. Moriarty always seemed extremely pleased by these comments.

One thing Sherlock was thankful for was that Moriarty wasn't making him torture anyone. But this was also setting him on edge; if he wasn't being forced to cast brief curses against the caged people, then what was Moriarty going to make him do later? This couldn't mean anything good.

And sure enough, as the hours ticked by things took a turn for the worst for Sherlock. The party had been going on for a while when Moriarty once again called everyone's attention to him and, by extension, Sherlock. Sherlock was tense as a livewire by his side.

"Hello again!" the Dark Lord called out cheerfully. "I can tell that you all have been having a _splendid_ time here, which couldn't make me happier! But there is one thing I thought could make this even more special." He turned to look at Sherlock with a manic gleam in his eyes. "My dear Sherlock has returned to my side, and what better way to welcome him back into the fold than to once again see his amazing abilities?"

The crowds cheered and bile churned in Sherlock's stomach. He knew exactly what was coming; some poor captive was going to be brought forward and Sherlock was going to have to show the cruelty Moriarty had instilled in him years ago to protect John and Lily. Sherlock had stayed far, _far_ away from dark magic ever since Moriarty had been imprisoned, and he didn't want to go back.

Dark magic was addictive. Every spell sent a rush through you, vibrating in your body and mind and soul. The more often you cast dark spells, the more addictive it became. The darker the spelllike the Unforgivablessped up the process. Sherlock had always had an addictive personality, and Moriarty had pushed him so far into the dark magic world. After his imprisonment, Sherlock had turned to muggle drugs like cocaine and morphine to try and cover the urge. Neither were healthy, but getting high was better than being sent to Azkaban.

But Sherlock didn't have a choice right now. If he didn't do what Moriarty wanted, John and Lily would be hurt. Maybe Sherlock was selfish, sentencing others to harm to protect those he cared about, but he couldn't do anything else. He would defend them no matter what.

Sure enough, two Death Eaters dragged forward a man. Sherlock recognized him; Auror David Barrowman. He'd helped Sherlock a lot in the early days, when he was trying to put Moriarty away. Barrowman had stood by his side and been one of the main people defending Sherlock to make sure he wasn't sent to Azkaban with Moriarty and the group of caught Death Eaters.

Sherlock looked at him sadly. He didn't want to do this, not to someone who had helped him so much when he thought everything was hopeless. But Barrowman didn't look angry with him, or even resigned. He held his head proudly and looked Sherlock in the eye, no blame in his expression. The Auror was simply waiting for his fate. Somehow, that made it worse.

Moriarty's hand brushed over Sherlock's back and he took a deep breath, raising his wand. "Crucio," he murmured.

Barrowman dropped to his knees, a scream tearing itself from his throat. He quickly crumpled to the floor, his body writhing as the worst pain imaginable coursed through every inch of his body. Sherlock wanted to throw up, especially as his veins began to buzz with the familiar rush of _power._

He dropped the spell, drawing in a calming breath. "Come on, my dear," Moriarty murmured against the shell of his ear, tongue darting out. "You can be far more creative than _that."_

Yes, he could be. He _had_ been, in the past. So desperate for Moriarty's favor, so hopeful to please his madman. Oh yes, he'd gotten _very_ creative with his use of spells. He had hoped that he would never have to be again.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Sherlock focused on Barrowman's chest. "Augamenti." The Auror gasped for air as his lungs filled with water, pushing out all of the oxygen. He clawed at his throat and rolled over onto his stomach, hoping to help the water come out of his lungs. It wouldn't work; Sherlock's spells were always very strong.

At his side, Moriarty cackled in delight. "Marvelous!" he crowed, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an excited child. "Oh, _Sherlock._ You are utterly _brilliant."_

"Finite Incantatem," Sherlock said. The water vanished from Barrowman's lungs and the man coughed for a while, hunching in on himself as he fought to regain control of his breathing.

The night continued in much the same way. Moriarty urged him on, and Sherlock found himself using dark spells he hadn't touched in years for fear of falling back into his addiction, and using "light" spells in ways that couldn't be considered anything except torture. The worse he got, the more the crowds of Death Eaters and supporters cheered, and the hungrier Moriarty's gaze became.

"Alright, Sherly," Moriarty said at one point. "You can finish it up now. Make it... _interesting."_ The shorter man's smile was that of a predator.

Briefly remembering back to their time at Hogwarts, Sherlock cast a light shield spell in front of himself and then pointed his wand at Barrowman, an apology in his mind but not on his lips, and clearly said, "Expulson." Under the force of Sherlock's own variation on the regular _"expulso",_ Barrowman's body began to shake and then, very suddenly, he exploded into a million pieces.

Sherlock's shield charm protected him from getting covered in blood and guts and...everything else.

Those closest to where Barrowman had been were hit by the blast, their lips curling in disgust and revulsion. Moriarty, however, looked incredibly excited. The blood and bits of body covered him, but he didn't look the slightest bit irritated by it yet, simply staring at the place Barrowman had been with a mad gleam in his eyes. Dark magic buzzed in Sherlock's veins and mind and he needed to get out of there before it escalated.

Luckily, Moriarty drew the party to an end. Everyone cleaned themselves off and Moriarty looked down at his robes in distaste, the spots of blood that hadn't come out making him annoyed. "And I just bought these robes," he sighed.

When everyone was gone, Moriarty strode out of the ballroom like a king, calling out for Sherlock to follow him. The taller man did, his steps slow with wariness. When Moriarty stopped and opened the door to a room, they entered a study. There was a large wooden desk, a couch and two armchairs, a fireplace, a trunk, and two bookshelves built into the wall.

Moriarty walked into the center of the room and threw off his outer robes, tossing them onto one of the arm chairs. He twirled on the spot to face Sherlock, a manic gleam in his eyes, and Sherlock stopped a little ways away from him.

"Take off your robes," Moriarty demanded. Sherlock's chest tightened in anxiety, his heart pounding, but did as he was told. Underneath he was wearing simple slacks and a white button up shirt. Moriarty's eyes roamed hungrily over his body before locking onto Sherlock's face. "I want you to curse me," the madman said, words rushed in excitement.

"What?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "You want me to _curse you?_ Whatever for?"

"I want to _feel it,"_ Moriarty said passionately. "You always lock your magic away so tightly, have since I met you. Whenever we fucked you'd let it loose, let me see inside you, but other than that you hid it all behind a mask. And it's been _ten years_ _,_ Sherlock. I haven't felt your magic in ten years.  _I_ _need it._ And since fucking you right now would be like fucking a corpse for all the enthusiasm, the only way I can feel it is if you curse me. So _do it."_

Sherlock stepped further into the room hesitantly. He folded his robes over the back of the couch, never taking his eyes off of Moriarty. "You're asking me to do this," he said slowly, and Moriarty nodded eagerly. "So doing this won't incur any punishment?"

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "No, you and your pets will be just fine. Now _do it."_

Not wanting to wait and draw out Moriarty's wrath, Sherlock lifted his wand, pointing it at Moriarty's chest. Fear shot briefly through himthe few times he'd done this before had ended in pain for himbut then he straightened, pulling together his nerve, and said, "Crucio."

Moriarty didn't yell or scream, even staying on his feet for a few moments, before slowly lowering himself to his knees. His head was thrown back, his expression a disgusting mixture of pain and elation as the Crutiatus Curse filled every part of him.

Even in his hatred, Sherlock had to admit that the way Moriarty handled this Unforgivable was incredible. He was obviously in painhe had no way to escape that, not with this particular spellbut he barely showed it. While most people would be screaming and twitching on the ground, unable to do anything, Moriarty had complete control over his body. He had no choice but to feel the pain, but he'd be damned if he let it decide anything more about him.

It was a moment like this that reminded Sherlock of why he'd loved this man. And then he also remembered that the same man had actually  _asked_ to be put under the Crutiatus Curse. Absolutely insane.

Very calmly, Moriarty rose a hand into the air, signaling Sherlock to stop, and he instantly did. For a few seconds Moriarty was breathing heavily, but he quickly got it under control until he looked just as pleasantly happy as he had before being put under the most painful spell to ever exist.

"Oh, Sherlock," he groaned, his eyelids fluttering. From his kneeling position he let his legs slide open a bit and he bit his lip mock-seductively. "I absolutely _must_ have you. Because _damn,_ my love. Your magic simply _screams_ passion."

Sherlock's lips curled as he fought to conceal his spike of fear and Moriarty laughed, a grin taking over his features. "Don't worry, my dear. I am many horrible things, but a rapist is not one of them." He suddenly jumped to his feet. "But there is one _teeny-tiny_ last thing before you can go to bed."

Sherlock watched the man warily as he approached. For the second time that night, Moriarty stepped right into Sherlock's space, his hands landing on Sherlock's hips. Just like before, Sherlock allowed himself to be walked back, this time until his waist hit the back of the couch. His legs were forced to spread slightly as Moriarty stepped between them. The pressure had Sherlock half-sitting on the back of the couch.

Moriarty moved even closer, his groin pressing against Sherlock's own. He could feel that Moriarty was hard and he swallowed nervously.

"When did you decide to help the Aurors catch me?" Moriarty said quietly, his warm breath washing over Sherlock's cheek. "Honesty, now; I'll know if you're lying."

For a moment, Sherlock's mind went blank. Just like earlier, Jim's magic washed over him, flooding his senses. In contrast to the serious anxiety he was feeling, the familiar magic calmed him down. _Not good._

"You hesitated," Sherlock blurted out, the first words to come to his mind as he tried to formulate a coherent sentence.

Jim frowned questioningly. Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to regain control.

"You'd just finished punishing me for missing an important detail. As I was getting up, a Death EaterNott, I thinkmade a comment about how he wanted to fuck me. He looked to you for permission. And you hesitated." He forced himself to breathe. "You'd always been very possessive of me. Before that, whenever someone had so much as glanced at my ass you'd _Crucio_ them before anyone could blink. But this time you hesitated, as if considering it, before you cursed him. It was barely more than half a second, but there nonetheless. That was when I knew that I was no longer safe."

Sherlock wasn't looking at Jim, but he could feel the other man's eyes burning into him. "You had ordered them to curse me before, because you'd wanted to see my different reactions between you and everyone else. An argument could be made that I was already far past anything resembling _safe._ But I trusted your love for me. I knew that you wouldn't let anyone touch me. Then you hesitated."

He took a shaky breath. "I contacted Mycroft the next free moment I had."

The room was dead silent after his declaration. Jim was still right there with him, body pressed against his own, but after a few long moments, the Dark Lord pulled away, giving Sherlock space. When Sherlock looked at him, Jim was staring off to the side. There was a slight crease between his eyebrows, his lips pursed, and he didn't look at Sherlock when he quietly said, "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Jim silently slipped out of the room, leaving Sherlock feeling confused and like he was missing something important.


End file.
